


Krokodil

by eternallygapingmaw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Snark, any excuse for smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 09:59:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7217968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternallygapingmaw/pseuds/eternallygapingmaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They grin at each other, breathless, and John realises just how glad he is that he’s not standing over the silly sod’s body in the hospital morgue right now. Or vice versa, come to that. In that crazed, crystalline moment, it seems quite reasonable that he should hook his hand around the back of Sherlock’s head, pull him close and kiss him on the mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Krokodil [traducción]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8310880) by [jessevaldfond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessevaldfond/pseuds/jessevaldfond)



> Originally posted back in ye olden days of 2011, under another name and long-since deleted, but as there seems to be a bit of a crossover between 00q and Sherlock fandoms - may be of interest :)

There’s an old joke about the difference between a straight man and a bisexual man, and the answer is _six pints_. John knows the joke: he’s told it himself, in select company, in moments of candour. He even has some alternative punchlines of his own. These include _a six-month tour of Afghanistan; the aftermath of a narrow escape from death or serious injury; loneliness; a lightning-strike of desire_. As punchlines go, they’re really not at all funny, although what they lack in levity they more than make up for in veracity.

Two good reasons, then, for John to keep them to himself.

Sherlock doesn’t do jokes. It’s not that he’s without a sense of humour, but as a raconteur, he is hopeless, at once pedantic and oblique. And it’s pointless trying to _tell_ him jokes: either he has spotted the punchline well in advance (and found it wanting), or else his relentless nit-picking ends up pummelling even the hardiest pun into twitching, toes-curled submission.

Sherlock doesn’t do jokes, but he loves riddles, conundrums, puzzles. He is never happier than when investigating his latest hypothesis. John’s science brain understands this part well enough, the drive to observe, to qualify and quantify, the desire for proof: but science alone would never satisfy Sherlock. Only people can provide the rogue factor that sends Sherlock’s careful calculations zooming right off the graph.

People, and their myriad impulses.

Unfathomable.

Irresistible.

*

With exaggerated care – Mrs. Hudson has surely turned in by now – John closes the door of 221B Baker Street behind him. His face hurts from laughing, but trying not to laugh proves more painful still. It’s been one of those days. Again. It’s getting to the point where John is hard-pressed to remember that there are other sorts of days, too. Days that consist of cracking open a tin in front of the telly, or reading every last page of the Sunday supplements with proper tea poured from the pot. Buying a lottery ticket from the corner shop. Pairing socks.

As opposed to dodging bullets and leaping across rooftops.

The conduit for all this chaos is standing right by his side: Sherlock, wide-eyed and exhilarated, still practically vibrating with energy. They grin at each other, breathless, and John realises just how glad he is that he’s not standing over the silly sod’s body in the hospital morgue right now. Or vice versa, come to that. In that crazed, crystalline moment, it seems quite reasonable that he should hook his hand around the back of Sherlock’s head, pull him close and kiss him on the mouth.

Sherlock – unexpectedly, but brilliantly – kisses him back. With tongue.

It is John who breaks away, a hand planted on Sherlock’s chest. “Shit,” he says. “Shit. Shit. Sorry.”

In the dim yellow light of the hallway, Sherlock’s expression is shadowed, unreadable. He says nothing.

“Look, I don’t want to – only if you – I mean – ” John pauses. “This isn’t some kind of experiment, is it?”

Sherlock blinks. “I can assure you that I am fully accepting of my sexual preferences. You, however, are decidedly less at ease.”

“You’re drunk,” says John. Sherlock shakes his head: he left behind the dregs of a single glass of red wine in the Swan and Edgar. “ _I’m_ drunk.”

“You’re five foot seven, eleven stone and two pounds, and you’ve drunk two pints of moderately strong beer over the course of the last ninety minutes. You might well be experiencing feelings of mild euphoria and relaxation and I suggest that you don’t consider driving a car in Poland, Sweden or China for at least a couple more hours, but with a blood alcohol level somewhere in the region of 0.04%, you are not sufficiently intoxicated for either your judgement, spatial awareness or speech to be significantly impaired.” John tries to speak, but Sherlock raises a hand. “In summary: no.”

“Adrenaline high,” says John. “We nearly got killed today. Again. And it’s all your fault, you mad bastard – “

Sherlock looks modest.

“Oh, for God’s sake – “ huffs John. He grabs Sherlock by his ridiculous sixth-former scarf, hauls him back in. Sherlock’s lips are cold, his hand sliding up the back of John’s head is cold, but his mouth is warm.

John pulls away again, spiked by sudden indignation. “You told me you were married to your work.”

Sherlock’s reply is butter-smooth. “I didn’t say that I was faithful.”

“And you knocked me back. Before.”

“I did?”

“That night in Angelo’s.”

“John.” Sherlock presses the heel of his hand to his forehead and sighs. “However can I make amends for my appalling volte-face?”

John is trying to decide just what would constitute suitable payback for this latest in a long line of insults, when he becomes aware that his thigh is pressed between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock lowers his gaze to meet John’s eyes and his mouth twists into a smirk.

“Get upstairs,” says John.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fret not, porn is imminent, I'm just too lazy to be constantly changing ratings :)


	2. Chapter 2

John is surprised when Sherlock leads the way to his own room. He’s never been invited into it before, although he has left umpteen mugs of coffee and plates of sandwiches on the landing outside (and, later, bellowed his annoyance at the closed door when the mugs and plates failed to reappear). From a tactical point of view, it’s a shrewd move: John feels the back-of-the-neck prickling that accompanies an advance into unfamiliar territory. This could still turn out to be dangerous. Certainly, Sherlock’s room – which is an utter pigsty, no surprises there – is filled with some very obvious hazards: a scatter of scalpel blades, mouldering stacks of petri dishes, an iron trailing a frayed flex swaddled with insulating tape. An ironing board, its cover stamped with scorch marks, leans folded up against the wall.

“This won’t take a minute.” Sherlock unwinds his scarf, shrugs off his coat and tosses it over the back of a chair. He flits around the room, shoving a multi-coloured spew of socks back into the chest-of-drawers, slinging a pile of pathology journals into the wardrobe. “There,” he says, breathless, “and that – there – and there – “

Perched on the corner of the bed, John starts to laugh.

Sherlock pauses at his task and fixes John with a quizzical stare. “What’s so funny?”

“This.” John gestures around the room. “This...shithole. _You_. All fur coat and no knickers.”

Sherlock looks him up and down. “Well, I imagine you’d know all about going commando, eh, soldier?”

John snorts, but he isn’t looking at the state of Sherlock’s room any more. Instead, he’s looking at the state of Sherlock’s crotch: the clear delineation of his cock through his trousers, pointing towards his left hip.

“Sherlock,” he says, “leave it.”

Sherlock is holding a brace of human femurs, one in each hand. He sets them down upon the bedside table, on top of a teetering pile of books and papers. A single leaf of sheet music disgorges itself from the stack and drifts to the floor.

John pats the corner of the bed. “Come on.”

Sherlock stands still for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists. Then he does as he is told. The mattress is old and spongy; it cradles the combined weight of their bodies like an invisible pair of hands. Sherlock’s thigh is pressed warm against John’s own. He seems closer, somehow, than when they were kissing in the hall, wild-haired, wild-eyed, a muscle jumping in his jaw. In contrast to his earlier self-assurance, he looks more conflicted than John has ever seen him. John feels himself to be on the edge of a revelation: the understanding of how, in certain situations, Sherlock’s everyday contrariness finds itself at odds with a deeper, tamped-down desire that tells him to obey.

“I think I like you like this,” says John.

“Like what?” says Sherlock.

“Pliant,” says John. He might be pushing his luck here – Sherlock lifts his chin and gives him a hard stare – but it’s all too delicious for him not to try. “Eager to please.”

Sherlock huffs and looks away. _I got you_ , thinks John. He persists, laying a hand on Sherlock’s leg. “So then. Is this what you’re like when you...”

Sherlock seems unaccountably fascinated with a crumbling cast of _L’Inconnue de la Seine_ hung on the far wall. He jiggles his leg up and down. “When I have sex with other people?” he says. John notes the qualifier, but the mental image of Sherlock wanking away up here night after night, maybe even as John is doing the same – the pair of them only separated by so much plasterboard – the release muffled by an old t-shirt, a handful of Kleenex – _other people are just too much trouble_ – it’s depressing, rather than erotic, and he pushes the thought aside.

“Yeah,” says John, and because he wants to puncture the bellying feeling of unease, “When you fuck.”

“Ah.” Sherlock runs a delicate fingertip around the bones of John’s wrist. The intimacy of the gesture comes as a surprise, but the expression on Sherlock’s face remains arch, calculating. “ _Wouldn’t_ you like to know?”

“Actually,” says John, “I would.”


	3. Chapter 3

John leans in closer. His hand is inching up Sherlock’s thigh. His fingers starfish over the bulge between Sherlock’s legs and he squeezes him there, firmly.

“God – ” stutters Sherlock, “well, yes then, all right, if you insist – ”

John silences the babble with kisses, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s chin and cheek and finally his mouth, until Sherlock is kissing him back. Then John is reaching for Sherlock’s belt and Sherlock is scrabbling to help, tugging the leather free of the buckle. John pops the button on Sherlock’s trousers and works his fly down, clumsy in his impatience to get closer to him, skin on skin, the warmth he can feel radiating through his clothes.

“Let me – ” says Sherlock. He leans back and together they drag his trousers down to his knees.

The waistband of Sherlock’s pants is stretched tight between his hipbones, his erection outlined under the fabric. John runs his thumb and forefinger lightly along the shaft, pinching them together over the tip, where the cotton is already darkened. Sherlock’s cock pulses hard, and John feels the tiny spread of dampness under his fingertips. His own cock twitches in sympathy, still trapped in his jeans. He insinuates his fingers into the gap between fabric and skin, brushing against the crisp curls of hair. Sherlock shifts and the length of his cock rolls sideways against his lower abdomen so that the head pokes into view.

“Oh, that’s nice,” breathes John, and he moves his hand to cup Sherlock’s balls, pushing up so that more of Sherlock’s cock is revealed. John leans down to touch it with his tongue, and Sherlock makes a nervy, pent-up noise.

“Shh.” John slides his hand further under Sherlock’s balls and pushes them up higher. He licks Sherlock’s cock again, lingering a little longer this time, letting the tip of his tongue play over the frenulum and around the ridge. Then he makes his tongue stiff and uses it to gently bat the head from side to side. Sherlock is taking shallow breaths that turn into a gasp as John stops his teasing and laps wetly over his cockhead, pressing the flat of his tongue against the slit.

“Fuck this, come on,” says John, and he releases Sherlock’s balls to hook down the elastic with one hand and pulls Sherlock’s cock into his mouth with the other.

“Oh – ” says Sherlock, “oh _shit_ – ”

John tastes the salty slick of Sherlock’s arousal. He purses his lips and moves them up and down over the shaft, bracing his forearm over Sherlock’s thighs to try to keep him still. Sherlock is squirming beneath him, digging his heels into the bed.

“John – ” Sherlock’s hands are in his hair. John recognises the urgency in his voice and lets his mouth slacken around Sherlock’s cock. “Got to get these off first – ”

John sits back and Sherlock kicks his legs up in the air, his trousers and pants still bunched up around his knees. He toes off his shoes, letting them fall to the floor with a thud, one after the other, wrestles the tangle of cloth down over his ankles and flings it to one side. A shower of small change patters down upon the carpet. He scrambles to his feet, his cock bouncing up against his stomach, and unbuttons his cuffs and the first few buttons of his shirt before yanking it up over his head. There is a rasp of straining seams as he struggles to free himself. And then, at last, Sherlock is naked, stood in front of John in the circle of light cast by the single 40-watt bulb hanging above their heads, palming his cock up against his stomach, unselfconscious, breathing hard. He is thinner than John had even imagined, the scaffolding of his body clearly visible under the skin: the taut, shifting play of muscle and tendon, the vault and strut of bone.

“Jesus,” says John. “You’re like a bloody diagram.”

Sherlock grins, lopsided, and John feels the reflected warmth of a compliment both understood and accepted. “Now _you_ ,” he says.

John laughs. “More of a doodle than a diagram, to be honest,” he says – thinking ruefully of his softening belly and the blasted mess of his shoulder, the trench of skin grafts dug from his thigh – but Sherlock takes a step forward and leans down to kiss him, swift and warm. Then he sinks to his knees.


	4. Chapter 4

“ _Christ_ ,” says John, faintly. His hands move to his belt. He hasn’t even taken off his jacket yet.

Sherlock unties John’s shoelaces and lifts his feet into his lap, one after the other, to ease off his shoes and socks. He sits back on his heels, his hands resting lightly on his thighs, watching as John pulls his cock out.

Sherlock’s eyes widen, then narrow again. John’s cock feels weighty in his palm, hot and hard, curving upwards at the tip. He can’t help but feel a certain selfish satisfaction at Sherlock’s ill-concealed surprise: he knows now that there is one area, at least, in which Sherlock is decidedly average. The fact that he himself just so happens to excel in this particular area is pretty much the icing on the cake. John sits holding his cock, and tries very hard not to smirk.

He is not entirely successful.

Sherlock reaches out a hand, not to touch John’s cock, but to pluck at the hem of his jumper. “I’ve never performed fellatio upon a man wearing a cream-coloured cable-knit before,” he says.

“Feel like getting kinky, then?” says John.

Sherlock glowers at him. “Take it off.”

John wriggles out of his jacket and reaches both hands behind his shoulders to pull off the offending jumper and his t-shirt. “There,” he says. “Happy now?”

Sherlock’s gaze tracks across John’s chest for a moment (John sits up a little straighter), then he places his hands on John’s kneecaps, pushes his legs apart, and ducks his head to take John’s cock into his mouth.

“Oh, fucking hell,” hisses John. Sherlock, eyes closed, pulls back to trail his tongue in lazy circles over the head, letting it slide wetly against his lips and cheek. John takes hold of the bottom of the shaft and pushes it firmly back into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock reaches for himself as he sucks John off. The flexing of his shoulder as he rubs his prick is faster than the bobbing up-and-down of his head. The deep notch of his cupid’s bow, stretched tight around John’s cock, is the most obscene and wonderful thing that John has ever seen.

“God,” says John, “Sherlock, your mouth – ”

He places a hand on the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind, so John buries his fingers in his hair. He wants to come like this, just like this, pumping himself down Sherlock’s throat as Sherlock wanks himself off at his feet. But Sherlock lets John’s cock slide from his mouth and twists out from under his grasp, wiping a hand over his face. His other hand is still between his legs, working the head of his cock between his fingers. His brows are drawn together in a frown.

“I’ve never liked these trousers, either,” he says.

John rolls his eyes, but he lifts his hips so that Sherlock can pull down his trousers and underwear. He shimmies backwards onto the bed. Sherlock climbs up alongside him, walking forwards on his knees, his cock swaying heavily between his legs. He leans in over John, who tries to pull him down into a kiss, wanting to taste himself on Sherlock’s tongue, but Sherlock pushes him away. The expression on his face is one that John knows well – focused and intent – but seeing it in this particular context, he has to try hard not to laugh.

Sherlock’s lip curls. “I need to... _investigate_ ,” he says.

John lies back and lets Sherlock’s hands roam across his body. His touch is assessing, rather than arousing: John has the feeling that he’ll just have to wait this bit out. For now, he is so much data, secret histories of injury and illness to be captured and stored. Sherlock’s fingers probe the dent below his collarbone ( _gunshot, 2005_ ), before moving under his shoulder, seeking the exit wound. What was once a ragged hole has since been patched and darned ( _reconstructive surgery, 2006-7_ ). It’s ugly, but functional.

 _Like an old sock_ , thinks John.

Sherlock’s touch skitters along the neat seam traversing the lower right of John’s abdomen ( _appendectomy, 1982_ ), and lingers over the sgraffiti decorating his left leg from ankle to hip ( _shrapnel, 2003_ ). In contrast, Sherlock’s own skin bears no trace of his escapades, save for a silvered patch in the crook of his left elbow.

From this evidence, John is able to draw some conclusions of his own.

Sherlock’s eyelids are half-closed. Beneath them, his eyes flicker rapidly from side-to-side. His hand moves to the inside of John’s right thigh. His fingers creep up the shiny furrow where the layers of epidermis were sliced and peeled away ( _skin graft, 2007_ ), until his knuckles are brushing the underside of John’s balls. John’s cock jerks and he takes a sharp breath.

Sherlock’s gaze snaps back to John’s face. “Now,” he says. He looks bright, amused, crafty. “Where were we?”

John wraps his arms over Sherlock’s back and pulls him close, rolling onto his side so that the pair of them lie face-to-face. “It’s just an idea, but I think we were getting each other off?”

Sherlock hooks his leg over John’s hip, squashing their cocks together in the tight space between their stomachs. The contact makes them both gasp. “I think – I think I would concur with your theory,” Sherlock says.

“Yeah,” says John. “Yeah.” He doesn’t care how inane he sounds, not with Sherlock rubbing himself against him. He moves his hand from Sherlock’s back and down over his arse, fingers edging towards the cleft, feeling for his arsehole. In response, Sherlock hitches his leg still higher. His breath stutters as John touches him. John traces the rim of Sherlock’s anus with a fingertip. The muscle gives fractionally as Sherlock pushes his hips back. In that instant, John’s whole universe narrows to one bright star of intention.

“Fuck,” he blurts. “I want to – will you let me –”

“ _Yes_ ,” says Sherlock, low and fervent.

“Do you need me to use a condom?” John whispers, because that is the Safe And Responsible thing to say in such situations, and because he can’t quite bring himself to simply say, _let me get a condom_. A dark greedy part of him is willing Sherlock to _say no say no say no_.

_Say no, because I want to leave something of myself inside you._

Sherlock jerks his head, annoyed. He bats John’s hand away and rolls onto his back, pulling John on top of him. John raises himself up on his elbows so that they are facing each other, nose-to-nose.

“No,” says Sherlock. His tone is crisp. He lifts his right leg and drags his heel down the back of John’s calf. “Contrary to what you might suppose, I’m clean. And I know that you are – ”

John decides not to ask how, exactly, Sherlock is privy to this information. “As a whistle,” he says.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Of course, there’s such a thing as _too_ clean...”

“Like you’d know. I could take some swabs from this room - ”

“And I could save you the bother. _Eikenella corrodens_ around the doorhandle, _acinetobacter baumannii_ on the lightswitch, nasty little colony of _vibrio vulnificus_ in that cup on the windowsill, note to self, stop using the kitchen crockery for experiments.” Heedless of John’s exclamation of disgust, Sherlock waves a hand. “But don’t worry about it, I did change the sheets yesterday.”

John rubs a fold of the sheets between thumb and forefinger. “Liar,” he says. He shifts his weight to one side and moves his hand back to Sherlock’s cock. “So. Tell me. How do you like to be fucked?”

Sherlock arches into the touch, bares his teeth in a crocodile grin. “Thought you’d never ask,” he says.

John moves swiftly, sitting up and straddling Sherlock’s hips. “I don’t _have_ to ask, you know. “ He grabs Sherlock’s wrists and yanks his arms above his head. “If you feel like being difficult, fine. Why change the habit of a lifetime?”

Sherlock gasps and squirms beneath him. John leans forward and rocks his pelvis so that their cocks slide together. Sherlock cranes his neck to watch, then lets his head fall back with a groan. “Hard,” he says. He licks his lips. “From behind.”

“Christ,” breathes John. “I mean – yeah – I reckon I could manage that –”

Sherlock turns business-like in an instant. “I suggest we make use of that tin of Vaseline you’ve been carrying around. I could always concoct a little something to ease the way, but diverting ourselves from the task in hand might prove something of a mood-killer, don’t you agree?”

Such ruthless practicality – John has come to expect nothing less from Sherlock, but even so, he has to catch his breath. All that winter, an icy gale had roared from Marylebone Road to Euston Road. Sarah had given John the tin of Vaseline after complaining about his chapped lips, taken it out of her handbag and pressed it into his hand. _Come on, take it. Just promise me you’ll use it_. He has no doubt that Sherlock knows this, (no doubt at all), but the alternative – sitting around like a spare prick at a wedding whilst Sherlock busies himself with vials of glycerine and god-knows-what for god-knows-how-long – maybe even until the moment has passed, vanished, kaput, gone forever –

John smacks his palms against his thighs. “Sounds like a plan,” he says.

As John gets up to rummage through his jacket pockets for the tiny flat tin that _must be here somewhere_ , Sherlock arranges himself on his hands and knees on the bed, his back flat as a table.

“Bingo,” says John. He holds the Vaseline aloft. His cock, hopeless Pavlovian that it is, salutes accordingly.

“Well, don’t just stand there looking pleased with yourself,” says Sherlock. Even naked and on all fours, he still manages to be supercilious.

“Right you are, Romeo.” John tosses the tin on the bed and kneels behind Sherlock, placing his hands on his buttocks. Sherlock is rail-thin, the protuberances of his sacrum outlined beneath the skin of his lower back; the sides of his hips are scooped-out hollows. John feels a rush of affection for his scrawny, spiky, cantankerous flatmate, even though he knows that Sherlock’s spareness is not a sign of vulnerability, but of efficiency: enough fuel to burn and nothing more, not a single ounce of excess flesh to haul around. This is nothing he can hope to put into words, so he bites Sherlock on the bum instead. Sherlock yelps, falling silent when John licks over the spot he has just bitten.

“Nice?” says John.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but his fingers tighten on the sheets.

John pulls Sherlock’s buttocks apart and blows softly against his hole. “Nicer?”

Sherlock shivers. “It’s not...bad. I suppose.”

Daring now, John touches his tongue to Sherlock’s tailbone and dabs it down the cleft of his arse, stopping just short of his anus. “What about that?”

“Pretty...decent,” says Sherlock, a tad shaky.

John grins to himself, leans in a little closer, and laps a wet stripe from Sherlock’s balls to his perineum and up over his arsehole.

Sherlock takes in a shocked, shuddery breath. “And that’s just _in_ decent,” he says. “Do it again.”

John obliges, licking Sherlock’s crack with broad, firm strokes. He has always loved rimming, both men and women: the frankness of it, the sour, intimate taste, the utter irresistibility of a tongue in the arse. Even Sherlock is not immune: he is quivering all over as John lips and sucks at his anus. Holding Sherlock’s arse open with his thumbs, John points his tongue and stabs it softly into the taut ring of muscle, again and again.

“God,” he says. “I could eat you till you come, easy – ”

With a parting nip to Sherlock’s left buttock, John draws back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He picks up the tin of Vaseline and twists off the lid. After dipping his little finger into the pallid, waxy gloop, he replaces the lid and sets the tin down by his foot. He rubs his fingers and thumb together, smearing the jelly across his fingertips, then wipes his fingers into the spit-wet crack of Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock sighs.

John fans the fingers of his right hand against Sherlock’s tailbone. His thumb is firm against Sherlock’s arsehole: he pushes harder, and his thumb sinks easily inside.

Sherlock makes a low, appreciative noise.

John starts to slowly circle his thumb. He turns his wrist so that his fingers are curled up against Sherlock’s perineum, the thick-muscled root of his cock, pressing, stroking. He crooks his thumb and pulls downwards, working the rim of Sherlock’s arsehole to open him up.

“You feel really good inside,” John murmurs. “So tight. So hot...”

Sherlock’s rumbles of contentment have given way to choked-back moans. John withdraws his thumb, wipes his sticky hand along his cock. He’s so hard, even this brief touch has him sucking in air through his teeth. He reaches between Sherlock’s legs and draws his cock back between his thighs for a few quick strokes. Hot and full, Sherlock’s cock springs back again as soon as John lets it go.

“All right?” John rises up on his knees and rubs the length of his cock along the slippery cleft of Sherlock’s arse, not trying to penetrate him, just enjoying the sensation. Then he takes hold of himself and angles his dick with more precision, feeling it snag sweetly against Sherlock’s arsehole on every stroke. Sherlock, his head sunk low between his shoulders, starts pushing back to meet him. John lets him have a little more, blunt nudges against his hole, barely dipping inside.

“Yeah, you like that?” says John. “You want to feel it inside you?”

Sherlock tuts. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says, his tart tone contradicting the gathering tremble in his thighs, and John could laugh – he should have guessed, even on his hands and knees with his arse in the air Sherlock would still act like _Sherlock_ , the insufferable prick – but instead he flexes his hips and shoves in hard and -

“Jesus,” he chokes out, and Sherlock’s head has snapped up and he’s shouting something unintelligible because John has sunk halfway inside him on a single stroke and Sherlock is so good, so tight around his prick, so –

\- _fucking_ good that John has to do it again. He grips Sherlock’s hips and drags himself all the way out, ignoring Sherlock’s griping, then pushes firmly back in.

“John, I – “ splutters Sherlock, mingled outrage and shock in his tone, and John does laugh then, breathless.

“Don’t start now,” he says, “God, Sherlock – ”

Sherlock rolls his head from side to side. The echo of the movement in his hips makes John hiss. “Don’t _stop_ ,” he says.

“Okay,“ says John, “okay – ” and he drags the heel of his hand along the bamboo curve of Sherlock’s spine, up from his tailbone to between his shoulderblades, pushing him down onto his elbows. Sherlock’s knees spread, opening him up even more to John’s cock, and suddenly he’s in, all the way, his balls smacking against Sherlock’s backside. “God.”

Sherlock stifles a groan. “Is – is that the best you can do? Stop tickling me and start fucking.”

John shoves his hips against Sherlock’s arse. “Ask nicely.”

Sherlock gasps, jerked forward by the impact. He recovers himself and turns to look over his shoulder.

“I’m asking nastily,” he says.

John lets him have it. He grabs Sherlock’s shoulders and hauls him back onto his cock. He won’t give Sherlock the satisfaction of settling down into an easy fuck, so he works him over erratically, circling his hips and then pulling almost all the way out again before plunging in deep. Sherlock is gratifyingly responsive, clawing at the sheets and moaning. John thinks he could do this forever, trying to find the combination that forces the most perfect sound of pleasure from Sherlock’s throat. But already the possibility of orgasm is beginning to shimmer at the edge of his consciousness, bright and tantalising as a mirage. He folds forward, bracing himself with one hand on the bed, and reaches under Sherlock’s belly to play with the slippery tip of his cock. Sherlock’s body jerks at the touch, and the sudden squeeze of his internal muscles makes John’s balls tighten up. He comes with a shout, driving himself hard into Sherlock’s arse.

“Sorry,” he gasps. “So fucking good – I couldn’t last – ”

John holds himself there, his cheek pressed against the damp skin of Sherlock’s flank, until Sherlock starts to shift restlessly beneath him. Shaking, he slides out, drops back onto his heels. Sherlock heaves himself up onto all fours and turns over, long legs splayed haphazardly, like a foal. He is red-faced and smirking, his cock bobbing up against his stomach. John’s prick is still hard. Sherlock reaches out to run his knuckles along its length, but John stills his hand with a grimace. “Come on,” he says. “I want to get you off.” He pushes Sherlock onto his back and moves in close. “Legs up,” he says.

Sherlock lifts his feet up off the bed and parts his knees shamelessly, revealing the sexy, swollen pout of a well-fucked arsehole. The head of his cock looks tight and shiny, leaking wet onto his belly. John fondles Sherlock’s balls for a moment before pushing two fingers inside him, quick and dirty. He moves his fingers in and out, testing the lack of resistance. “God, I loosened you up, didn’t I?”

Sherlock folds his hands over his chest, flinching a little he relaxes into John’s caress. “Having an erect penis of above-average size forcefully and repeatedly inserted into one’s anus will tend to do that, Doctor, yes,” he says.

“Flatterer.” John turns his wrist and shoves in hard, making Sherlock gasp and drop his feet back down on the bed. The sight of his own spunk being forced out as Sherlock’s arsehole contracts makes John’s cock twitch again. John withdraws his fingers a little, feeling for Sherlock’s prostate. Precome wells up in Sherlock’s slit and his cock jerks.

“Oh,” says Sherlock. He rocks his hips. “That's feels - ” His arsehole is tightening now as he bears down on John’s fingers. He strokes his palm up the length of his cock, the barest of touches.

“Go on,” says John. “Touch yourself.”

Sherlock takes hold of his cock and starts working his foreskin up and down over the head, tight and fast. “Get down here,” he says.

“Fuck,” says John, ” – yeah, all right.” He leans in between Sherlock’s parted thighs and pumps his fingers. Sherlock goes frantic beneath him, his lower body straining upwards, his breath sputtering. His arsehole clenches hard. John squeezes his eyes shut and Sherlock’s spunk lashes across his lips, his chin, his tongue.

John feels Sherlock slowly subside, and opens his eyes. Only now is his own cock starting to sag. He lets his fingers slip from Sherlock’s body and sits up, scrubbing his other hand over his face. He hesitates for a moment before wiping both hands on the sheets.

Sherlock coughs and groans and curls up on his side, facing the wall. The hair at the nape of his neck lies in damp curls against his skin. His ribs rise and fall as his breathing eases. John realises that he never got to watch Sherlock’s face as he came, and feels a vague twinge of disappointment. Somehow, he can’t imagine that he’ll get another chance.

“Sherlock,” he says. “All right?”

Sherlock flaps a hand.

“Is that a yes?”

Sherlock merely grunts in reply. John sits on the bed, hugging his knees to his chest, wondering what is supposed to happen now. The last time he fucked his – female – flatmate, he was still at medical school. Afterwards, the pair of them had sneaked downstairs to the shared kitchen, giggling and shushing each other, and made bacon sandwiches. The next day, things were a little awkward, if still amicable: it never happened again, and they were both fine with that. But this is _Sherlock_ , and besides, they don’t have any bacon. In fact, they don’t have any _anything_ (save an elderly jar of capers and the dregs of a pint of milk...), thanks to an ongoing standoff regarding whose turn it is to do the shopping.

Maybe he should just fuck off. Out of Sherlock’s room? Definitely. Out of Sherlock’s life?

He’s certainly considered it before now.

But just as John is readying himself to make a move, Sherlock sits up, yawning, fluffing his hair with his fingers. He scoops the pillows together and flops down upon them with a groan. From his prone position, Sherlock reaches out a hand to his bedside cabinet and tugs the drawer open, setting off a small explosion of sticking-plasters and nicotine patches.

Sighing, Sherlock gropes around inside the drawer and retrieves a plastic Cricket lighter and an unopened box of Gauloises. He flips the lid, pulls out the foil and tosses it on the floor. The lighter is running out, producing a tiny, gassy flame that only catches on the third attempt, making him huff with annoyance.

John taps Sherlock’s knee. “I thought you’d given up?”

Sherlock looks up at him, narrow-eyed, and exhales a slow, sideways stream of smoke. “I could say the same.”

The _froideur_ in his voice, if not unfamiliar, is at least unexpected, given the circumstances. “Right,” says John, slowly. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Well, John. Let’s see.” Sherlock tucks his left hand under his right armpit and jabs his cigarette in the air. “You’re almost forty years old. You’re starting to think that you’ll never find happiness in a long-term relationship.“ Sherlock’s shinbones are sharp as blades, his long, bony feet crossed at the ankle; his cock lounges fat and indolent against his thigh. The fact that he is freshly-fucked and still stark bollock naked is in no way deterring him from displaying his viperine side, and John has the uneasy sense that he is only just beginning to wind him himself up in order to strike. “You worry that Sarah left you not because she was scared that you might get yourself killed –”

“That _I_ might get myself killed?”

“- but because she could not countenance being involved with a man who was not fully committed to heteronormativity. Although, despite the rather compelling evidence to the contrary, you remain somewhat reluctant to identify as bisexual. Not that you’re alone in that regard, as is recognised within the current parlance of sexual health professionals. I’m sure you must be familiar with the term, you’re a doctor after all. _Men who have sex with men_. Now tell me, amirite? Am I?”

“Sherlock,” says John. “Enough. Really.”

“Which suggests,” Sherlock continues, ignoring him, “I’m not really your type, insofar as you have a type at all. Being rather too – “ (and here he pauses, drawing his lips back from his teeth as if the word sours his tongue) “ - _homosexual_ for your tastes. However, as your flatmate, I do at least have the advantage of proximity – ”

“Sherlock,” says John. “We fucked. And whilst we were fucking, you complained a little less than you usually do, so I can only presume you enjoyed it. I did, if that means anything. So pack it in, will you?”

Sherlock glares at him. John squares his shoulders and glares back, until Sherlock’s expression softens infinitesimally. “Am I acting like a prick?”

“Let’s just say there’s a golden statuette with your name on it.”

Sherlock snorts, wiggles his toes. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you want to spoon now?”

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock – look, give me that.” John plucks the cigarette from Sherlock’s hand, leaving his fingers scissoring empty air. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. John takes a long drag at the cigarette, feeling the smoke rush into his lungs, corrosive and comforting. The nicotine hit is instantaneous, a cartoon mallet-blow of sensation that smacks him right between the eyes. It’s been a while.

It’s been a long while.

John leans over Sherlock to knock the ash into a half-drunk mug of coffee sitting on the bedside cabinet. The surface of the coffee is black and wrinkled, starry with mould. He takes another drag, but the buzz is receding now, and with it, the memory: another time, another place, dust-sticky sweat drying slowly on skin. Terrible stubble burn, impossible to get a decent shave out there, something in the water. Or just not enough water, full stop. Parting with a knuckle-bump, a slap on the back. Nothing much to say, an understanding left unspoken.

_Me. You. Here we are now, and we’re still alive._

He passes the cigarette back to Sherlock, who examines it critically, fore and aft, before slotting it back into the corner of his mouth. John tugs a pillow out from under Sherlock’s shoulder and settles down. The two of them lie side-by-side, close but not touching. For a while, the only sound in the room is the tiny kiss of Sherlock’s lips against the filter. Outside, an ambulance wah-wahs down Baker Street.

The cigarette butt sizzles as Sherlock drops it into the mug. “John?”

“What is it now?”

“I need to sleep.”

John yawns, scratches his chest. “God, yeah. Me too.”

He lets his eyelids droop shut. A moment later, a sharp finger prods him in the ribs. John opens his eyes again to find Sherlock peering down at him. The look on his face – brow furrowed, teeth plucking at his lower lip – fills John with a sudden, bone-deep weariness that runs far beyond post-coital fatigue.

“S’all right,” he says. “You don’t need to throw me out. I wouldn’t risk sleeping next to you anyway. You might start...I dunno, sticking a probe up my arse, or something.”

Sherlock heaves a theatrical, heard-it-all-before sigh and flops back down onto the pillows, approximating Michelangelo’s _Dying Slave_. John clambers out of bed and starts looking for his clothes. _Nothing like a dignified retreat, eh, Watson_ , he thinks, as he picks his pants up off the floor. He is aware that Sherlock has rolled up onto one elbow and is watching him as he dresses, the same frank, assessing stare that John has seen turned upon corpses and crime scenes. Here, now, it is he who is caught in the searchlight sweep of Sherlock’s regard. Should he feel flattered?

It’s hard to tell.

John sits on the edge of the bed to put his shoes back on. When he stands up, Sherlock makes a satisfied little noise and turns over, dragging the covers with him. “Shut the door on the way out, will you?”

 _Two pints_ , then, thinks John, as he makes his way back to his room. It’s sparse and tidy as ever, the carpet hoovered, the coverlet neatly folded. The sheets are cool and unwrinkled, smelling faintly of fabric conditioner. John thinks of the musty, churchy odour of Sherlock’s bed, like something buried and forgotten. He thinks of his gun, sealed into a Ziploc bag, wrapped in a tea towel and a double-knotted binliner and lowered into a knee-high canister of olive oil at the back of Angelo’s stockroom ( _A temporary measure_ , Sherlock had said. _Lestrade and I, well, we’re not quite seeing eye-to-eye at the moment. No point in dragging you into it too_ ).

He thinks of the world outside, stretching away from 221B Baker Street in every direction, of all the streets still untrodden, even here, in London.

He doubts that he will ever set foot in Afghanistan again.

_The aftermath of a narrow escape from death or injury_

_Loneliness_

_A lightning-strike of desire_


End file.
